One of her elementary school students was dancing in this thing and she went to provide moral support. And teach me a lesson, which was that when I say "yes ma'am" I better not complain about whatever it is I said "yes ma'am" to.
Her little student was third on the list of--count 'em--seventeen different dancing troupes.
She finished dancing and came up to sit beside us. Jennie gave her flowers. I prayed for a way out.
For the uninitiated, a school-age recital is like having a root canal without the benefit of anesthesia. At least to me.
Now it's different if it's your child performing. At least that way you know somebody there. As it was, I knew nobody except my wife and this one child.
We had great seats--right under the air conditioning vent, which was blowing on Full Arctic Freeze-O-Breath.
Did I mention it was a balmy 42 degrees here last Saturday night? Oh. Yeah.
I kept waiting for someone to come over the PA system and say, "Randy Berry, you can leave now. And take your stinky attitude with you." But no.
In the middle of eternity, a lady stepped out and proclaimed Intermission. Now at any other venue when Intermission is announced you can at least get up and thaw out (or leave gracefully). Not here. "I have some announcements while they're changing the tape to record the DVD." I am not making this up. That's literally what she said.
And--AND--I was overdressed for the occasion. I'm normally a shorts-no socks-deck shoes kind of guy. For this, I got dressed up. For this, I got dressed up?
I asked a parent how long the program would last. He said about an hour and a half. Seemed like a lifetime.
The best part was being with my love. But I could've done that without the ballet recital, which I could not and did not appreciate artistically. Looked like a bunch of grade-school girls running from one side of the stage to the other, jumping periodically. I'm sure their parents were proud.
Apparently, taking me to anything beyond a George Jones concert is like putting perfume on a hog.
You can do it, but why?